The Murders in the Blue Fjord
by Babble
Summary: The city of Windhelm is gripped by terror. A bloodthirsty Butcher haunts the streets, and three innocent women have been massacred. Ulfric Stormcloak has seen enough killing outside the walls of his home. When the Butcher strikes again, Ulfric decides to take matters into his own hands with a solemn swear on his tongue: this time, it will be a man's blood on the ice.
1. Force

**3rd of Hearthfire, 4E 201**

Silence dominated the Palace. The guard looked up at the High King, awaiting a reaction to his grim report. Ulfric Stormcloak was utterly still on his throne. After a few heartbeats, he rose and calmly strapped on his sword. One of the boys in training came forward, eager to serve, and stood on tiptoes to drape a heavy fur cloak over Ulfric's shoulders. He murmured thanks to the boy and walked away from the throne of his father. The guard looked after him, confused.

Galmar blocked his way, fists clenched.

"You're the fucking High King. General Tullius will be marching on the Rift in days if not hours. Come with me to make a plan to smash the faithless dogs, and let your guards deal with this damned ruckus!"

Ulfric gently pushed him aside, marching with purpose. At all corners of the long room, his servants and soldiers pretended not to watch their leaders squabble. The scent of meat over flame from the kitchen filled the evening air, and hushed conversation from the war room tried to draw his attention. _No. No distractions._

Jorlief caught up with them.

"Galmar speaks truly, sir. This concern is beneath you. Please, let me handle it."

"And leave my people to be massacred?" Ulfric didn't care to look at the steward. "In here, we are shielded by stone walls erected when elves of snow still drew breath. Guarded by the finest warriors this land has seen since the Five Hundred. Friga Shatter-Shield had no such protection. Nor did Susana of Candlehearth, and now the stablemaster's woman has been taken as well. I rely on that elf to supply horses for us. And on one of the streets of my family, his wife was sliced open like a sow at harvest. You've already failed me once. Arresting Wuunferth on false claims was ill done."

Jorlief fell back, suitably chastened. But Galmar would not yield.

"You know I'm not one to shy away from a hot blooded crusade, but good soldiers are dying in your name all over." Galmar tried to catch his eye, with little success. "Do a few dead girls matter more to you than the sons of Skyrim? One of them a whore, another a fucking high elf?"

"Those soldiers will fall regardless. They knew the risks when they joined our cause." They were at the doors of the palace now. Under Ulfric's feet, the plush carpet was soft and yielding. He was sickened. "I'm going to put my sword through this bastard's heart. No more women die in Windhelm."

He kicked open the doors, startling the guards posted outside. Galmar didn't follow as Ulfric went out into the frigid night, the central brazier of the courtyard casting dire shadows across the ancient plaques of his ancestors. A filthy beggar was warming her hands at the fire, but at the sight of him she fell to her knees and began babbling nonsense. Ulfric walked past her down the Avenue of Valor, drawing his cloak tight across his shoulders. The moons were high in the sky, and only guards and beggars walked the frozen cobblestones. _Guards, beggars, and the monster terrorizing my home. _Ulfric couldn't hope to have a true claim to Skyrim if he couldn't even keep Nords free from harm in the city of Ysgramor.

His memories of Windhelm were layered, distinct, incomplete; like an old tome with pages ripped out. His mother, strong and hale, guiding him through his earliest steps in the snow, a rose as red as blood in her hair. Then his father, ordering him to say farewells preceding their journey to High Hrothgar and the Greybeards. Most of the friends he'd made in his childhood had gone on to perish in the Great War, fighting for the Empire he'd now forsaken. The city had always produced Nords of great fortitude and valor. _What will remain, after this war ends? How many worthy warriors will be left to stand against the Aldmeri Dominion? _Seldom did Ulfric let such ponderings reach the realm of consideration. This business with the Butcher had darkened his thoughts.

"Hold there," a guard called out to him from down towards the Stone Quarter. Ulfric didn't stop. _I don't have time for this._

"Do you not know the face of your king?" He was already moving past the fool, turning to another street. Hjerim was the focal point of these destructions, if Jorlief was right about anything at all. The guards had already investigated the old house, but Ulfric had little faith in their abilities. Only the rejects of the Stormcloaks, the trainees too slow-witted to follow battle plans and recall strategies, were pushed into guard service. They had no hope of catching anyone who didn't present himself in the streets with a bloody dagger.

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind. Ulfric glanced over his shoulder, and saw the same contemptible guardsman that had accosted him previously. _Once the war is won, Jorlief and I will be having some long talks about his standards of recruitment._

Hjerim. An ancient lodge of stone and wood looming over the street at the end of Valunstrad. In the language of the ancient Nords, "home of frost." Uninspired naming aside, Ulfric knew little of the house except for it had seen many winters before his birth. Clan Shatter-Shield had restored the manor for their youngest daughter to live in. After her murder at the hands of the butcher, the abominable place had been abandoned. He pushed open the doors, the shriek of metal aberrant on the quiet street. The inside of the house was shadowed, the floor littered with debris and smears of black. Ulfric entered without hesitation.

Foolishly, he'd gone from the Palace without so much as a candle. Only dim window light guided his footsteps through the cavernous dwelling. Either Friga Shatter-Shield had been a sparse decorator, or her family had come after her burial to collect the larger furniture. He'd not attended the ceremony; the machinations of rebellion consumed his every waking minute. Ulfric moved forward with care, breathing through his mouth. The house was lousy with the stench of death; the Butcher had returned here recently. Drops of red, fresher than the rest, led away from the doorway. They gleamed in the moonlight like stars of crimson. Ulfric drew his sword and followed.

"Come," he called out. "Reveal yourself." The darkness swallowed his words and made them small and weak. The blood trail led to a candle dripping with wax on the floor next to a wardrobe. The faint brilliance kept his sight from adjusting to the gloom. Outside of the dwindling supply of light, the world simply fell off. Ulfric knelt.

"Disgusting." The candle was held by a severed hand, the fingers broken and fastened with thin twine. And that wasn't the most deplorable detail. Ulfric had stood by enough funeral pyres to know the scent of human fat burning. _The wax and the hand are brothers in flesh. This Butcher is more depraved than we realized._

At the other point of the house the door creaked open. For a second a slender silhouette stood outlined against the ephemeral light of midnight. Ulfric raised his sword. Then the metal hinges screeched shut, and a violent blast of wind claimed the flaming wick. Darkness seized him.

* * *

Wuunferth the Unliving, muttering curses under his breath, began down the long stone staircase to the guard barracks. Jorlief had some nerve, asking him to attend to some wounded fool of a guard so soon after being released from a false imprisonment. He'd lived in far worse places than the cells of the Bloodworks, of course, for far longer stretches of time, but his pride and reputation were irreparably damaged. There had already been rumors about him, Wuunferth knew; Nords were a wary and superstitious race. Not even his long friendship with High King Ulfric had been enough to allow him the benefit of the doubt.

And there was that damned amulet. Wuunferth tapped the fingers of his right hand together, an old habit, and wracked his mind for the umpteenth time this week. He was certain he'd heard of such a piece of jewelry before: Eight-sided. Jade, ringed with ebony. A worn carving. Maybe something he'd read during his days at the College of Winterhold.

Bah. He'd have to worry about it later. For now, one of the simpletons that had arrested him needed tending to. The Stormcloak cause didn't attract many restoration mages, so what healers they had were out on the battlefield. And so Wuunferth had to lower himself to dealing with the brawling injuries and superficial cuts of the Windhelm guard force.

Wuunferth entered the room briskly, already eager to leave. The air was filled with masculine scents both unfamiliar and unwelcome: sweat, mead, blood. Sometimes it baffled him that these burly men so destitute of the common powers of understanding were his kin. Guards were crowded around a cot at the end of the room, speaking in hushed and frantic whispers.

He sighed in irritation and strode towards them. The fools didn't notice his presence until he was pushing them aside to behold the spectacle. Some guards they were. If Wuunferth had truly been the Butcher, no one would have known until it was too late.

The man was wrapped in a bedsheet, but the covering was soaked so heavily in sweat that Wuunferth could see right through it. He was fascinated. The man's eyes were wide, filled with despair and panic, but they looked right through his gathered friends and the mage. He looked, but did not see. Trickles of red drained from the openings of the man's face. His pillow was already stained with the fluids. He seemed to be convulsing in slow motion, shifting unnaturally from one position to the other whilst emitting a long and unsettling groan.

"How long?" Wuunferth steadily ignored the suspicious glances and unsettled murmurings his sudden presence had provoked.

"Came in an hour ago, sir," one of the younger ones answered. "Without his armor. Just collapsed on his cot, didn't say nothing to anyone."

_Without his armor._ An essential detail. High King Ulfric had just left the Palace on some reckless inclination to kill the Butcher himself, and he wouldn't know to suspect a man wearing the garb of a city guardsman. _I've got to let the others know. Galmar and Jorlief need to find that stupid boy before he gets himself killed. _

Wuunferth turned to leave, unconcerned with this sick wretch in light of the danger to his lord. But a cold hand grabbed his wrist.

"Release me, you-" He stopped. The guards around him gasped. The afflicted man had sat up, and regarded Wuunferth with white eyes devoid of pupil and iris. The leaking blood had gone black, and the groaning had stopped. Now the man made no sound at all. _No breathing. _

"I was a damned fool," Wuunferth cursed himself. "The Necromancer's Amulet! Of course! And on today, of all days..."

"Um, sir?" The young guard backed away with the others. His undead counterpart was climbing out of the cot, cold fingers still wrapped tightly around Wuunferth's arm. "By Shor, he's got you!"

Wuunferth grunted in irritation and met the corpse's grip with his own long and spindly fingers, pulling the creature closer. "Quiet down, child. I'm trying to focus, and you're yelling in my ear."

He delivered the magicka into the monster with a blinding crash of lightning. The other guards jumped back as their fallen brother shuddered violently and blue energy flashed out of his eyes and mouth. After a moment, the twice dead man fell back on to the cot, wisps of smoke trailing. Wuunferth released the blackened forearm.

"The Hall of the Dead," he ordered. The guards looked up at him, confused and eager for someone to give them direction. "I suspect your idiot friend here won't be the only corpse walking the streets of Windhelm tonight. Go, now! Your king stands alone against these vile creatures!"

The barracks became a hive of activity as the men threw on their armor and weapons. Guards arriving from their shifts caught on to the plan quickly and prepared to join their brothers. Wuunferth left the brutes behind and hurried up the long stairs, worried for possibly the only Nord in this city capable of providing him intelligent conversation.


	2. Flesh

"Your friends won't be coming, I'm afraid." The kindly voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "My newest creations crawling out from the Hall of the Dead will occupy them for some time. Helgird should really keep a better watch over her embalming fluids."

"Vile necromancer." Ulfric spat into the darkness. "You've lived in this city for years, Calixto. Enjoyed our victories, shared in our defeats. Many considered you a friendly face. How easily an Imperial heart turns."

"Race has nothing to do with it, my Jarl. Or, rather, everything to do with it. You don't know how many times I've wished my sister and I had been born here in Skyrim. All the local parts I've collected would be far more compatible."

Ulfric's mind was feeling increasingly clouded. His grip on the sword was shaky and uncertain. _Somehow, the bastard's poisoned me. _

"You'll find me a hardier foe than the women you cut down in the streets," Ulfric growled. "Come closer, and taste the fury of a true Nord."

"Oh, I don't think so. I'm no match for you. That's simply a matter of fact. So I've taken the liberty of leveling the playing field."

When the dagger came out of the darkness, Ulfric reacted a second too late. The blade cut a gash in his arm, and by the time he'd launched his own attack the air was empty and still. Ulfric cursed. He was too slow with the poison running through his veins.

"I believe the dosage will be high enough to inhibit your use of the Thu'um, as well," Calixto reported cheerfully. "I heard what happened to Torygg. Shouted him apart, didn't you? I would've paid fine coin to see that throne room afterward."

"Silence." Ulfric fought to keep his concentration. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted a copper wetness. "I tire of your voice, old man. No wonder your sister left the city years ago. She must have found you insufferable."

Calixto was silent for a moment. "She didn't leave the city. She died." His voice came from somewhere behind Ulfric.

"Imperials always abandon you in your time of need. I'm not surprised your whore sister chose the easy way out." The poison was slowing Ulfric's reactions, but his mind was still sharp.

"Shut up." The dagger came again, slashing across his shoulder. Ulfric gasped and swung, but the hilt of his sword flew from his hand and disappeared into the darkness. _Damn._ "You don't know anything about Lucilla. She fell ill. I'm trying to help her, the best I can. And you're not going to stand in the way, my Jarl. I've had revelations in this house that would shatter the minds of those fools at the College of Winterhold. The people of Windhelm will soon see for themselves the powers of flesh magic unleashed."

"You think you're the first mage to come to this city seeking answers, fool? This house is ancient, and so are the stones beneath it. Generations of Nords have lived and died in the bitter cold. More blood has been spilled in Windhelm than you can comprehend. Only a madman would think he could control the dead here."

"What you call madness, I call enlightenment. A sixth school of magicka. An uncomfortable school, yes. Maybe even an unsavory one. But these are unsavory times we live in, aren't they? I suppose you'd know that better than most."

He'd kept the Butcher talking, but Ulfric had no better idea on how to fight the bastard. Calixto was constantly circling him, and the poison kept Ulfric from focusing long enough to pinpoint his position. The wooden floor was sticky with blood and viscera. An idea to him. _Calixto moves, but the room stays the same. He speaks of revelations in this house. I wonder…_

Ulfric moved across the house, slowly and steadily, following the trail of scum beneath his boots. The wounds on his arm throbbed with every step. His hand ached for a sword, but he would have to make do.

"My Jarl." Calixto's voice was closer, now. "Where are you going? We hadn't finished our conversation yet."

* * *

"Mighty Arkay, God of Mortals, hear now the prayers of your humble servant. Bless these departed souls and welcome them into the realms beyond," Helgird said.

Arivanya didn't provide much of a response, and if Arkay heard her he didn't choose to speak up either. That was the way with the dead and the gods, though. They expected you to bow to them and respect them without providing anything in return. There was one thing in the gods' favor, Helgird thought; they didn't start stinking up the Hall of the Dead when summer came around.

She shuffled over to her tool shelf, a rough opening cut into the wall of the Hall of the Dead. Thousands of years ago, the Hall had been a tomb of the ancient Nords. Helgird supposed it still was, in a way. She grabbed her embalming knife and turned back to Arivanya. The High Elf woman had been golden skinned in life, but death had diminished her, and now spots of blue and black colored her faded form. Helgird did not often stray beyond the confines of the Hall and its graveyard, but she had encountered Arivanya on occasion. The elf had always seemed like she didn't quite belong in Windhelm, as if she wanted to be somewhere else than Ulfric's capital.

"Well, now you're here to stay." Helgird liked to talk to the dead. They provided more stimulating conversation than the ice-brained guards, and the mourners who came down to the Hall to pay their respects were always crying and solemn. The Shatter-Shields had been the worst. First the daughter Friga had fallen to the Butcher's knife, and the sister and the mother had spent days weeping in the graveyard, trampling flowers and making a mess of things. Helgird hadn't liked that, but that didn't mean she was happy when Nilsine turned up dead as well, and then the mother hours after. The Hall had collected three Shatter-Shields in three months, and now there was just Torbjorn left. _The father, the widower. Poor wretch. Wouldn't be surprised to see him join his family, sooner or later._

"Haven't had a High Elf on my table in some time, you know. You're a special little treat." There was always the chance that Arivanya's kin would come to the city and demand her remains, in order to dispose of her in some way more suited to their culture or faith. _Though it'd be surprising if they made the journey, with the war still raging on. _For now Arivanya belonged to Helgird, and to Windhelm. The husband Ulundil had already come to see her and bid farewell to his love, and to tell Helgird he didn't want a funeral. It was a wise decision. Funerals were expensive, especially for a stablemaster, and from what little Helgird had heard, Arivanya had not had many friends in the city. _That's just fine, _Helgird had told him. _I'll take good care of her, son, don't you fret. She'll be as pretty as Mara herself when she goes into her coffin. _

Helgird set the embalming knife down next to the dead elf's arm. When she knelt down to open the cupboard under the table, her knees popped. _Need to get me a young lad to help with things around here. Wouldn't need to be smart, or even strong. _Most of the able-bodied young men in Windhelm were being fed to Ulfric's war. She'd watch them ride out of Windhelm on their horses all handsome and brave and foolish, and then watch them return to the city in boxes loaded into a carriage. Ulfric Stormcloak had been keeping Helgird busy for years now. She sometimes considered sending letters to the Hall of the Dead in Solitude, to compare notes with her Imperial counterpart, but more likely than not she'd end up beheaded for treason. _And who would tend to my old corpse, hmm? Maybe they'd have to get Wuunferth to do it. _The thought made her chuckle.

When Helgird stood, Arivanya was gone.

"Damnation." Helgird took a step back and swept her eyes across the candlelit chamber. In all her decades attending to Windhelm's dead, she'd never had a corpse get up and walk away. That was one of the things she'd liked about the dead. They were always where you left them.

The shadowed alcoves in the old stone walls of the Hall suddenly took on a sinister light. Helgird grabbed her embalming knife and slowly circled the table, on the watch for any signs of movement. She imagined she could feel cold eyes on her back. _Bah. You're not a babe at your mother's teat anymore, Helgird. Get a grip. _

"If this is some sort of joke, I'm not laughing." Her voice seemed small and powerless in the dim lighting. An old woman's voice, feeble and weak. "Grimvar? Grimvar Cruel-Sea? If I found out you're behind this, boy, I'll make sure your father has you scrubbing barnacles off the docks for the rest of the era." Another thought occurred to her. "Aventus?" The boy had left Windhelm months ago, but he'd always seemed more than a little off to her. _And a small form can hide easily in these long shadows._ "Come to see your ma? If you come out and tell me where Arivanya is, I can help you."

From the depths of the Hall of the Dead, there was a shattering crash and the sound of splintering wood. Helgird gasped and turned to the stairs, her knife held high. Her hands were shaking. There was silence, for a time, and then heavy footsteps. _Very well, then. _

A braver woman would have descended the stairs to deal with whatever was disturbing her domain, but Helgird suddenly found the idea of Wuunferth the Unliving poking around her dead body to be much less amusing than before. There were guards posted outside, meant to protect the Hall from the Butcher. _Those lads are in for quite the surprise._ She moved backward, her knife at the ready, inching towards the iron doors leading to the surface.


	3. Fire

Elda Early-Dawn scowled at the procession of guardsmen streaming out of Candlehearth Hall's kitchen, their clinking pockets full of silverware.

"Stop right there." She grabbed one young guard by the ear and grabbed a bottle of mead from his belt. The line stopped behind him. "Takin' my good silver is one thing, mister. But these men won't be getting drunk in Windhelm without coin passing over my counter."

"Sorry, my lady," the guard offered weakly.

"Stupid child," Wuunferth growled. He stood in the shadows beside the bar counter, his arms crossed. "Calm yourself, Elda. I'll make sure this one is the first down into the crypts. What's your name, soldier? Don't try to lie to me. I can smell deception."

"F-Filfred, sir."

"Marvelous. Get your arse moving, Filfred. You don't have a lot of time to beg a silver dagger off one of your more competent brothers. That axe on your belt might give a dead man a nice shave, but not much else."

The trembling man hurried out of the inn, into the snowy darkness of the streets. The line continued moving, at last, but that hardly relieved Wuunferth's worries. It was ridiculous in the first place to have to rely on an innkeeper's kitchen stores in order to fight an army of the dead. If Ulfric had ever heeded his advice to keep a store of silver weapons in stock, the guards could have been clearing the crypts by now instead of rummaging through drawers. _Then again, If the boy ever took my advice, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place._

"I'm takin' a count, ya know," Elda declared. "Every fork and knife. You wizards aren't the only folk who know numbers."

"Duly noted," Wuunferth replied wearily. "Fear not. I'm sure the High King will make returning your silverware his highest priority, once this matter is dealt with."

"He better!"

Wuunferth had never had cause to visit Candlehearth Hall before this night, and he supposed that he never would again. That suited him just fine. The inn was not unlike the guardsman barracks, full of masculine scents and the sharp tang of sweat; the smell of many warm bodies crammed inside a warmer box. There was also the nauseating aroma of mead in the air, so sickly sweet. Once he was back in his chambers in the Palace of the Kings, Wuunferth intended to take a long and hot bath, with herbs in the water. His aching joints would surely thank him.

For now, there was another spot of business to attend to. Wuunferth left the guards under Elda's watchful eye and went up the steep steps to the inn's second level. The bards had given up trying to play a song against the cacophony of shifting silverware downstairs, so they sat glumly in the corner, fiddling with their instruments. Wuunferth was thankful. If he had been forced to listen to their minstrel drivel on top of everything else, it might have pushed him to burn Candlehearth to the ground.

The other residents of the inn, presumably tenants, kept their eyes on their meager bowls of food, and didn't dare look up at Wuunferth. No doubt they had heard wicked tales of him, if they had been in Windhelm longer than a week. _Good. The more these ignorant fools fear me, the less likely they are to interfere with my work. _Only one Nord looked vaguely interested in him. A towering, bulky man wearing heavy steel armor from neck to toe. He had small, cruel eyes and a gray goatee trimmed neatly.

"Stenvar," Wuunferth rumbled. "I have need of your services. The city guard are barely capable of raiding a mead pantry. Come fight with them, and High King Stormcloak will reward you greatly."

"It's still Jarl Stormcloak, ain't it?" Stenvar crossed his arms. "War is still on, last I checked. I don't accept promises as payment, old man."

_Damnable mercenary. _"I'll ensure that you're raised to a powerful position in the Stormcloaks. Your name will be known from here to Riften."

"Worth less than skeever shite if the Empire wins. I don't want to be known, and I don't want to fight for Ulfric. I want to be rich."

"I don't have any gold on me, blast you." Wuunferth's temper flared. "The situation is desperate. The dead are rising from their final rest. We have only minutes to spare!"

At his announcement, many around the inn gasped and stood up from their chairs, but Stenvar remained implacable. "_You_ might have minutes. The way I see it, I won't have to fight no dead men as long as I'm faster than all you lot. I've no love for Windhelm. There's plenty of work for sellswords, all over Skyrim. Work that puts gold in my pockets. Not promises." He grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "See how that works?"

Wuunferth crossed the room in a flash, and his hand was on Stenvar's shoulder. The mercenary's eyes widened and he reached for his sword, but Wuunferth grabbed his wrist and leaned in close.

"Listen closely," he hissed. "If you fight for us, I'll make sure you have your pick of the treasures down in the Hall of the Dead. The whimpering fools in this city leave all sorts of valuables for their kin, out in the open, unguarded."

"Steal from the dead?" Stenvar relaxed a little. "Won't they get angry?"

"We're about to go put them all down, with enough silver to drown a litter of werewolf pups. They won't be powerful enough for 'angry' for at least a century."

"My pick of the crypts, huh? How long do I get?"

"I'll give you from dusk to dawn. Tomorrow evening." Wuunferth stepped back, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the man. "Decide, now. I sealed the Hall, but our hour of reprieve is nearly passed."

"Fine." Stenvar grimaced. "You have my sword, old man. I have a few silver weapons hidden away in my room."

"Take them all, and meet us at the entrance to the Hall of the Dead." Wuunferth pulled his hood up and took a deep breath. "This Butcher and his minions will be dealt with, once and for all."

* * *

Wuunferth doubted the array of men gathered in the street would have given General Tullius much pause, but they would have to do. Dozens of green boys and old men, clutching silver daggers to their chests like totems of Talos. A light snow was falling, coating the blue fur of the guards in flakes of white. Stenvar was taller than most of them, and he stood near the front, holding a mighty silver greatsword and wearing a doubtful expression on his face.

"This is all you could muster?" He chuckled. "Little wonder the Stormcloaks are losing this war."

"Our best men are in the field," Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced reported calmly. "But you would know that, of course. You aren't stupid, Stenvar. Just craven. I won't defend our cause to a Nord who sells his blade to the highest bidder."

"Good. I'm already tired of listening."

"Silence!" Wuunferth barked. "Save your bickering for later."

Yrsarald stepped forward with a frown, dropping his voice low. "Wuunferth. Do you have any idea where our High King might be?"

"I expected him here." Wuunferth pondered. "Most of the murders have been concentrated around the Hall of the Dead. It could be that Ulfric's already down in the crypts."

"Then we'd best unseal the Hall."

The three of them and the guard Filfred went to the thick iron doors. Wuunferth waited impatiently as Stenvar and Yrsarald lifted the heavy bar and let it fall into the snow. Filfred shivered, a silver dagger held in his shaking hands.

The doors opened, and an old woman came scrambling up the steps.

"Helgird?" Wuunferth raised his brow.

She slapped him across the face so hard, he swore a part of his beard fall away.

"You rotten bastard." Helgird spat at his foot. "Leave the keeper locked away to keep the dead busy, was that your plan, hmm? Buy yourself a few more minutes for your plots, while they gnawed at my bones?"

"Not at all. I'd forgotten you were down there, woman."

She slapped him again, and this time Wuunferth felt his teeth rattle.

When Helgird raised her hand again, he grabbed her arm. "Enough. Tell me. Did our High King come to the Hall of the Dead, before the dead began to rise?"

"Ulfric?" Helgird frowned. "Nope. Haven't seen him down there for a season or two."

From the open mouth of the Hall, there was groaning and shifting. The four of them exchanged worried glances.

Wuunferth had an idea. "Filfred. Take a look down the steps, see what we're up against."

The boy's eyes widened. "B-but...I've only the dagger."

"Ysmir's breath, child, I'm not asking you to storm the battlements."

Yrsarald snorted. "I'll do it. This whelp is hardly fit to empty a chamberpot."

"No!" Filfred's fingers tightened around his small weapon. "Talos watch over me. I'll do as you ask, master Wuunferth."

He took small, nervous steps towards the open doors. After what seemed like an eternity later, Filfred stood looking down into the darkness.

Stenvar asked, "Whaddya see?"

"Um." Filfred rubbed the snow from his eyes. "Just blackness, really. Don't hear nothin' anymore, either. Wait. There is something."

"What?"

Filfred cocked his head. "Huh. That's funny. Almost sounds like...a bow string?"

A rusted arrowhead sprouted from the back of his skull and passed through, leaving an opening the size of an acorn. Filfred crumpled like an autumn leaf. Bits of bone and blood showered the rest of them. A loud groan came from the dark opening, and Wuunferth heard the shuffling of many feet.

Stenvar grumbled, "You didn't mention they could use weapons."

"I didn't know," Wuunferth admitted. He wiped some Filfred from his beard. "Fascinating. The magic at work here is older than I realized."

"Write your book later, fool," Helgird snapped. "They're coming."

Yrsarald turned to the guardsman. "Men of Windhelm. A vile necromancer has turned the honored dead against the people of this city. It falls to us to return them to their proper rest." He raised his silver blade into the air. "Come with me into this Hall of the Dead, so we may send Windhelm's deceased back to the halls of Sovngarde. March!"

Yrsarald and Stenvar sprinted into the Hall with a roar, and the dozens of guards followed close behind with war cries of their own, the moonlight shining off their silver weapons. It wasn't long before the sounds of battle came echoing up the steps.

"How many dead Nords do the crypts hold, Helgird?" Wuunferth asked.

"Err. All of them?" She laughed.

"Damn it, woman. This is no time for your jokes." He shook his head. _Where in Oblivion is Ulfric Stormcloak?_

* * *

The planks of the hidden door split easily against Ulfric's fists. _No sword, poison running through my veins. This will be simple enough. _

"Keep away from there!" Calixto screamed. Ulfric heard small footsteps rushing towards him, and he fell forward just in time to avoid the Butcher's dagger. The weakened door collapsed against his weight, and he found himself in Hjerim's secret room. Two thin candles were lit upon the dark altar. Ulfric could see again.

Calixto hissed and jumped at him, but Ulfric rolled out of the way. His clouded eyes searched the room, but not for weapons. _Aha. _Behind the altar was a gruesome sight: a woman, if it could be called that, created out of the parts of many others. Ulfric scrambled towards her, barely dodging another swipe from Calixto's blade. He rolled on top of the not-woman. The scent of decay almost made him vomit.

"No!" Calixto breathed heavily, his eyes as wide as feasting plates. He pointed his dagger at Ulfric. "Please. This is between you and I. Leave Lucilla out of it."

Ulfric rose to his feet, holding the stitched together corpse in his arms. He shook his head hard to clear the spots from his vision.

"I beg you." Tears ran down Calixto's face. "She's all I have left."

Now Ulfric's nausea was for an entirely different reason. _This is my adversary? A weeping old man? _

"Have her," Ulfric snarled, and heaved the disgusting creation at Calixto. The bag of bones and rotted flesh knocked him off his feet, and the dagger went clattering away. The Butcher and his supposed sibling were still on the floorboards for a long moment, the former moaning softly in pain or rapture. Then Lucilla Corrium began to move.

"Sister?" Calixto spoke excitedly. "Is that you?"

Ulfric steadied himself on the wall. _By Talos. _He crouched down carefully and picked up the Butcher's silver dagger.

"Lucilla. It's me. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this moment!"

Lucilla groaned. She raised her head from Calixto's chest and opened two milky white eyes. Black ooze dripped from her ears and ran down her leathery face.

"Oh! It's a miracle!" He laughed like a child.

His laughs fell silent when Lucilla began scratching at his torso, and soon enough the Butcher was screaming. Ulfric watched for only a second before plunging the dagger into Lucilla's papery skull. She rasped her last and collapsed against her brother. Calixto wept, his tears mixing with blood. Ulfric dragged him from the secret room, leaving the dead behind.

"**FUS!" **

Ulfric's shout shattered Hjerim's lower windows, opening the house to the elements.

"Wait." Calixto swallowed. "Impossible. My poison should have rendered you incapable of using the Thu'um."

"Seems you got it wrong." Ulfric threw the dagger aside, and approached the wounded Imperial. _Time to finish this foul business. _

"Then why didn't you use your Voice earlier?" Calixto pushed away weakly, in a final pathetic attempt to flee. "You could have shouted me apart. Just as you did the High King."

"You don't understand at all, do you?" Ulfric stomped on one of Calixto's legs, breaking the bones. The Butcher howled. "What's happening between us, at this moment, is no duel. Bards will not sing of a battle fought here."

He stepped across Calixto, raised his foot, and brought it swiftly down on the Butcher's other leg. The crack and ensuing squeal was like music to his ears. "High King Torygg. General Tullius. Even the Emperor himself. These are men worthy of dying to my Voice."

"Please…" Calixto gasped, pulling himself across the floor. His legs, empty sacks full of broken parts, followed with him. "Mercy."

"This was no duel." Ulfric circled around calmly, coming to the Butcher's arms. "This is me scraping the scum off of my boots. No one will remember your name, Calixto. I'm going to tell the people of Windhelm that it was a Thalmor plot that turned their dead against them."

After Ulfric had finished with his arms, Calixto was still on the floor. He didn't have much other choice.

"Please," he whimpered. "Kill me. Have mercy."

"I will provide you more mercy than you showed to the women who died here." Ulfric emerged from the hidden room, two candles in his hands. "You, at least, will not be returning from the dead. I've not heard of a necromancer who can raise thralls from ashes." He lit up the drapes, and orange light filled Hjerim.

"No...no," Calixto cried. "Slit my throat. I beg you."

"Save your begging for the afterlife." Ulfric retrieved his sword and made for the door. "To Oblivion with you, Butcher." He'd heard it said that death by fire was slow and painful. If the gods were good, it was true. He closed Hjerim behind him, and stepped out into the snow.

* * *

"Sorry it took me so bloody long," Galmar Stone-Fist said. "The damn thing was stuck above the hearth. Took four of us to pry it off the wall." He swung the silver battle-axe, decapitating two undead that had slipped past the guards. A handful of corpses lay outside the Hall, but for the most part, Yrsarald and his men had kept the fighting contained to the crypts.

"At least you're finally here," Wuunferth replied. He knelt down with Helgird beside an injured guard. "Ulfric still hasn't shown up, and Thrice-Pierced and the sellsword haven't found him down in the Hall, either. That boy's giving me conniptions."

"Hmm. Ain't like Ulfric to miss a good fight." Galmar sniffed the air. "Hold on. Is somethin' burning?"

Helgird pointed. "Lookie there! Above Valunstrad district!"

The sky above Hjerim was alight with smoke and embers. _Damn._ Wuunferth cursed. "Come on, you fools. Our King is in trouble."

Galmar led them down the blanketed streets of Windhelm, his axe held at the ready. Wuunferth gathered his magicka, ready at any moment to unleash a fireball of epic proportions. Helgird brought a silver dagger. He wasn't sure what use the woman would be in a fight, but she seemed insistent on coming along. Wuunferth supposed if all he had to do all day was attend to dead Nords, he would also jump at the chance to have some excitement in his life.

Waves of heat washed over them as they approached the burning manor. Ulfric Stormcloak stood before Hjerim, covered in shallow wounds. The snow around him was melting. He stared into the flames.

"Ulfric," Wuunferth exclaimed, forgetting himself. "Your injuries, boy. Did the bastard use poison?"

"A little. Nothing that could slow me down. Don't worry, old friend. I'll be fine. What of the Hall of the Dead?"

Galmar reported, "Yrsarald and Stenvar led the city guard down into the crypts. No honor in putting down corpses, but they're making short work of the fuckers."

"Stenvar?" Ulfric raised his brow.

Wuunferth nodded. "I had to make certain promises to the sellsword."

"I'll trust you have it handled."

"Aye, my king."

The four watched Hjerim blaze. The upstairs windows shattered, and shards of glass rained on the stones below. Soon enough the manor would be a blackened shell.

"Don't let the fire spread to the surrounding houses," Ulfric ordered. "Otherwise, let it burn. This house is best left a ruin."

"As you command." Wuunferth began preparing his containment spells. "Helgird, could you go to my laboratory and collect some frost salts? I want to make a perimeter."

"Fine." She wagged a finger at him. "But you better help clean up my Hall when the time comes!"

"Yes, sure, whatever."

Ulfric finally tore his eyes from the burning structure. "Come, Galmar. This farce is done with. After Thrice-Pierced is finished at the Hall, tell him to report to the war room. My blood is running hot."

"You mean…" Galmar's face split into an eager grin. "Hah! We're finally going to shove a sword down Balgruuf's gullet?"

"Aye. Too long have the Stormcloaks watched and waited. It's time to remind the rest of Skyrim that we're at war."

Wuunferth watched as the two men walked down the street, their chins held high. He couldn't help but sigh. Young men liked to play at war, but Ulfric wasn't so young anymore. Someday soon, the wizard knew, the Stormcloaks would bite off more than they could chew. _And when that day comes, I will bury Ulfric as if he is my own son. More than his own rotten father would have ever done for him. _Wuunferth shook his head to clear away the dark thoughts, and turned to his work. The flames were already starting to spread down the street. Wuunferth grimaced, and raised his hands.


End file.
